


Hands

by SmallSelfCritiques



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 18:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30059865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallSelfCritiques/pseuds/SmallSelfCritiques
Summary: Hands. Claire never thought she'd be so mesmerized by a simple pair of hands.
Relationships: John Bender/Claire Standish
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Hands

Hands. Claire never thought she'd be so mesmerized by a simple pair of hands. Such a basic extension of anatomy, almost always bare in public. Hands.

There wasn't ever a part of the body Claire was excited by or impressed with, especially when it came to her own physic. Her hands were always soft, perfectly manicured for seventeen years. Others found themselves impressed by her figure, but never Claire herself.

No pair of hands had ever touched her with an ounce of respect or passion, besides her own but even then it often fell flat. People were often greedy with Claire and hands only symbolized taking what was often not deserved. Not that she could speak on such a matter with her lifestyle.

John took what he wanted, what he deemed necessary, what he needed. His hands were his method of doing so. Those calloused fingers and the rough grip on everything he touched, it screamed danger, it whimpered traces of neglect and anger. But Claire was infatuated with them.

Perhaps it was his gloves, the black leather just barely hanging together by years of wear, the pins added here and there to them, concealing some kind of secret. Claire found that scars had long been his own humiliation to hide, much like her lack of comfort in sexuality. Even John's hands were covered in the ghosts of pain once opened flesh.

That didn't seem to bother Claire much, despite only ever looking at her own slender and pale fingers, free from any marks and always dressed in genuine gold, silver, or a diamond or two. The young woman didn't often look upon hands who were worked, ones with dirt under the nails or dry and scathing from labor. Claire only saw her own, clean and pristine, just as John saw her on that specific Saturday.

When John finally took off his gloves she wasn't looking, her eyes closed. Claire never said anything, she refused to push a boy into something possibly embarrassing, which seemed ironic now that she was lying underneath him in a position once thought to be inappropriate for her standards. John seemed to change that and so did his hands.

Warmth stretched across Claire's skin like rushing waves over the surface of the entire ocean. Lying on the living room couch and sighing just by the contact of his hands over her. John wasn't even touching her in places intimate, his fingers buried in her hair and caressing her collarbone so gently she wonders if he's ever touched something he thought was priceless.

"I can't buy you what you want," John whispered to her. While the statement wasn't erotic, Claire's breath still hitched.

"That's not something I care about, John."

"No?" John's short question almost shocked Claire.

"No. I've got everything people think I want."

"Do you have everything you want?"

"Depends," Claire moved John's grey strand of hair away from his tan complexion, her heart burning as he gently leaned into her hand. "Are we talking material or emotional?"

John smirked, "Material."

"Yes but most of what I want doesn't matter," her response was almost a whisper.

"Do you want me?"

Claire looked John in the eye, her pouty lips opening as she looked at the pools of fear. He carefully covered the assumption of neglect with sarcasm and wit but that was shallow here. An answer was something often dreaded, however she had good news for him.

"Yes. I want you."

John looked away, a visible swallow traveling through his throat, his tongue licking the inner corner of his lips. This act seemed to show he was thinking, a response most often followed. Claire wondered if he'd push her away like he did back in March.

"Do you have a price," John asked as he stared at the T.V. playing a vain episode of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."

Claire's brows expressed slight confusion as she shifted over the floral quilt underneath them, "Huh? What do you mean?" She hopes this won't lead to an argument.

"Everyone seems to have a price. I want to know what it will take for you to leave." John was clearly masking that familiar and rarely seen terror.

"I'm rich, remember John? No price is too high," Claire laughed, "but you aren't something I can or wish to buy. I want to earn something for once."

The moment of clarity was visible for only a second before John smirked once more. He always hid any moment of possible vulnerability with that smirk, a funny sign for the fact that he was feeling something. Claire assumes it's positive this time.

"I want you too," John's words were short but Claire thinks it's the closest she'll get to him declaring love. "You're priceless."

Finally, someone saw Claire as more than an object to be bought or sold for attention and credit. John's eyes identified her desires, just as when he asked about her sexual status in detention. His hands seemed to prove his opinion and her skin blazed once more as his thumb traveled the length of her ear. The same one with the diamond.

That same hand was bare to her in the same way her desire seemed to be for him. John's gloves were abandoned on the soft white carpet, forgotten about in the midst of the conversation. Claire could now see his scars and soon her lips could feel them too. 

Hands. Claire could feel his hands at the edge of her satin skirt, pale pink moving up her skin as John explored slowly. She didn't want him to hesitate, she wanted him to touch her with those basic extensions of his anatomy. Hands.

John softly and slowly nipped behind her ear after kissing her earring. The simple and delicate movements from him, someone so rough and rugged looking, did more for Claire than any of the yuppie types making suggested remarks at her. John could speak just as vulgar but his fingers were masterful at a sophisticated touch.

The movement of his fingers stopped from palming her thighs, a second for which caused frustration to escape the confines of her throat. John pulled back and Claire thought he was turning into the tease he accused her of being but his index finger slid across her slightly revealing red sweater's neckline. He touched the first tortoise shell button, loosening it.

Excitement seemed to be feeding the passion within Claire, her pink nails sliding beneath his flannel and undershirt. When John tensed, she caressed his skin for a moment, then pulled away to meet his own fingers that were praising that one sunspot on the left side of her upper chest. She changed their attention from his eyes on the finish of freckles back to her sweater.

The buttons went one by one, being undone by Claire herself. John's eyes took her in, although nothing scandalous was uncovered, his expression a recipe of fascination, thirst, and perhaps ardor. He licked his lips and she bit hers.

"I knew you wouldn't," Claire mirrored a familiar sentence.

"Didn't want to push."

Claire huffed a laugh, "Says you, who put his face between my knees."

"Sorry, that was a mistake." That apology wasn't expected, but John seemed honest although sarcastic.

"You touching me was never a mistake." Claire's real speech could have started if John didn't conquer her lips with a purposeful kiss.

"You're wearing some amazing lace," his voice sounded enamored as he touched her delicate cream colored top. The same tone he had when he felt expensive satin for the first time as he sat on her bed sheets. That night he was slouched as Claire tended to a bruise on his arm, glad a comfortable texture was distracting him.

Claire whispered, "Yeah," as she gripped his shoulder. "My bra is too today." She knew she shouldn't be playing a cruel game of teasing, but she planned on offering anything he wanted to take tonight. Nothing seemed to be off the table, despite her inexperience.

Hoping to God her parents won't walk in wasn't an issue, as it had been before. Business trips and vacations saved privacy for a Saturday night. Summer seemed sweet in an intimate heat for once.

"God," John choked, "Please tell me you're wearing a matching set."

"Maybe." Claire slipped out of her red sweater.

"Dress like a cherry for me?" John's fingers helped discard the vibrant and soft cashmere fabric.

Sliding an orange strand of hair behind her ear, Claire blushed. "Maybe."

"No judgement."

"Did you wear a flannel for me?" Claire's question sounded innocent. John knew that it wasn't, perhaps not as dirty as he thought but he understood the implication. She loved a man in plaid, a strange thing no one would assume. He sure didn't.

"Maybe," John gave her those words back, unbuttoning his grey and blue wreck of a thrifted shirt, his work quicker and more relaxed than when Claire was doing the same action to her own covering.

As he casually shed his cheap and full of holes attire, Claire turned the television off, wanting no distractions. John still had another layer upon his chest, a spray paint stained black Led Zeppelin shirt. That proved as both a hindrance and a caution, almost a stop sign without the blaring red.

John always wore more than one layer, even in weather challenging during the warmer seasons. There was some kind of gratitude he owed to the wind of Illinois for keeping things bearable. To hide his scars was the most obvious answer to the question of this habit but he covered his lack of muscle too. John hid almost everything, even took the effort to conceal the slight limp he had in March, scared of vulnerability.

His face was once more looking away, staring at the reflection of them in the sleeping T.V. as he did at least three times tonight. The last thing Claire needed to expose to John was further intimidation, he wasn't completely hiding his unease, if he was he wouldn't be in her house. He was bare to her, she wanted to even things out, her sentiments were already disclosed but there was still uncharted territory that she herself found formidable.

Soft off-white lace made good riddance of her skin, Claire being pleasantly surprised with the steadiness of her own hands as she threw her shirt behind her head. Her bra finally on display, a shade of red that matched her sweater and combated her flushed freckles. A gaze swept across her chest and although Claire felt it, she was closing her eyes once more to avoid seeing it.

An index finger and a thumb pulled her chin up, "I want to see you." John's voice was raspy.

Claire finally looked, she just gave a dumb and vague nod.

"I'll even the score," John said, pulling that band t-shirt over his chest, once more hiding behind sarcasm.

The expression on his face reeked of worry that was in the process of being concealed, John didn't need to feel insecure but it seems he didn't know that yet. As a pale finger traced the jagged cut across his chest, he shivered, taking Claire's hand in his and kissing her fingers. He mimicked her actions earlier of lips on knuckles and palms.

Hands. Claire loved when he traced over her lingerie, over the bra and over the panties. She's never felt so hot under the very simple caresses of a basic extension of anatomy, she doubts if any boy had felt her up before that she would feel this way. Hands.

Denim and silk were forsaken to the carpeted floor, Claire's nails contrasted his brown hair as she gently pulled on his strands. Lips meeting and tongues cascading over each other before John's trail went to the plain between her breasts, unclasping texture and removing it from her. True pleasure was discovered by her in this moment.

Never before has she been felt up, not even when things got hot and heavy with John. He was always cautious, unlike many of her other dates, brief dates at that. Claire was always thankful that he didn't push a feel, didn't force her, and gave her freedom. That in of itself turned her on.

"Fuck, you're skin is so soft," John whispered. Claire knew that already, that was stated by others. Hell, John had mentioned that before but not with that kind of voice.

As a whimper caught in her throat, Claire responded with a simple, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

That reply sounded similar to when he was claiming her name was for a fat girl, this time however seemed more genuine. His hands felt genuine too, especially his thumbs that rolled sensitive pink buds in circles. Then in a moment, John's mouth and tongue seemed to be the most genuine upon both her chest and between her thighs.

Any red fabric that she might have been wearing ten minutes ago were completely gone. All of her layers were retired to the living room floor, save for her jewelry. John's long hair tickled her thighs and she giggled softly, hiding any nerves flooding her body.

John's eyebrow quirked in smooth enthusiasm, "Something funny?"

"No," Claire giggled again, "I'm just ticklish."

"Good to know," John kissed the small birthmark quiet on the inside of her right thigh.

Finally he reached that spot, the place only touched by herself but never giving her a flow and finish of pure heaven. Claire rarely ventured there, only finding her fingers there when thinking of John late at night underneath her purple bedspread. Now her fantasies and reality was connected by swift fingers, skilled licks and a gasp of his name, feeling her first orgasm.

In the back of Claire's distant thoughts, she was beyond relieved to have waxed the night before. Even more thankful she started taking the pill months ago for regulation and maybe as preparation for a night like this with John. When John reached for his wallet, she stopped him with a gentle tug on his orange boxers.

"We don't need one," Claire said, her ruffled hair framing her face.

John pursed his lips,"We need protection, sweets."

"I know, John," Claire looked down once more after biting her bottom lip, "I'm taking the pill."

"Oh."

The small response was followed by John tossing his wallet, sliding his body upon hers after Claire helped rid his last article of clothing. John kissed her neck once more before meeting her pout in a soft embrace. He pressed into her, causing a quick and uncontrollable shiver upon the quilt once more.

"Kind of naughty, having sex on the living room couch," John said once they found a comfortable pace, pain in the past and her grip on his shoulders.

Claire shot him a glare which dissolved within a second when she gasped once more, "Being bad feels pretty good, huh?"

"So fucking good, princess," John's thrusts were picking up, "you feel so fucking good."

"You too." Thank God the curtains were closed.

John's remark was crude but Claire found in the heat that she liked that. He was making her like everything, love everything. From his long hair to his wild wit and from his scars to his hands. 

"I love your hands, John."

"They love you too," John pressed his forehead to hers with his left hand palming her right breast.

Claire felt so close once more, whimpering, "God."

Hands. Claire held his hand when it was over, caressing and kissing the calluses on fingers and his palm as he nudged her neck with his nose. Anyone else's basic extension of anatomy would never measure up to John's touch. Hands.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is my first actual fan fiction so I do apologise if it's not properly made
> 
> \- The Breakfast Club is my favorite movie so this was bound to happen
> 
> \- I'm usually writing poetry and songs, much more abstract in nature so I have no idea how well I can write a traditional story.


End file.
